


A Night at the Holosuites

by stayneurotic



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: F/M, Holosuite Shenanigans, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27833311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stayneurotic/pseuds/stayneurotic
Summary: It’s a passing fantasy, really. That’s all. But, you have to admit, this little infatuation you have with the Dominion Ambassador is really starting to interfere with your duties. Perhaps all you need is a night at the holosuites  – get it out of your system, so to speak. Certainly couldn’t hurt.
Relationships: Weyoun/Female Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	A Night at the Holosuites

The day Starfleet abandoned Deep Space Nine had seemed like the end of the world, at the time. No one knew what to expect from a Dominion invasion, and with scars still so fresh from the last occupation, everyone feared the worst. It was a long two months of waiting and watching back in your family home on Bajor before you learned you would be able to return – and when you did, things were...different, to say the least.

Fearing a rebellion, Dukat forbade your security team to return to duty, preferring to leave such matters in the capable hands of the Jem’Hadar. Without a job to return to, you and the others struggled with life aboard the changed station – familiar faces missing, boredom bordering on ennui, sense of purpose vanished. Many of your fellow officers slunk away back to Bajor, but you and the few who remained alongside you communicated your struggles to Odo, who fought for you any way he could.

Suddenly, one day – good news. The Vorta in command of the station had acquiesced to Odo’s request, and effectively immediately, your team was reinstated back to full-time duty (albeit restricted to the Promenade). The phaser at your hip had truly never felt so comforting.

Dukat would never have agreed to it, you muse one day over a Samarian sunset. That Vorta – Weyoun – must have been the one to give the okay. Anything Odo asks of him, you suppose, but still...you  _ are _ a touch grateful. Life had become bearable again.

You don’t know much about Weyoun, beyond the whispered rumours that surround him (he’s a clone, he sleeps with Dukat, he has a shrine to Odo in his quarters) and the few glances you’d caught of him around the station. He was just a few inches taller than you – slender – with those big, alien amethyst eyes, always darting about in search of their next target. He wields his smile like a weapon, but as much as you know the danger it must conceal, you can’t help feeling endeared by the way it creases the corners of his eyes. Most people seem uneasy around Weyoun, and for good reason, you suppose. But for all intents and purposes he seems friendly enough.

“Quark,” you call, pulling the Ferengi away from crunching some numbers on a padd. He doesn’t seem particularly bothered – you two had begun to build up something of a casual friendship over the past few weeks as you started frequenting the bar more and more. It had become something of a comforting constant amid the chaos of the station.

“Need another drink?” he asks, pointing to your cocktail. “You’ve been nursing that one so long it’s about to become a Samarian sun _ rise _ .”

“No, no. I was actually wondering…” You hesitate, but in the end curiosity wins out over discretion. “...What do you know about the Vorta in charge of the station?”

“Weyoun?” he asks, a little surprised. “He’s as slimy as they come. The Cardassians and the Jem’Hadar, they at least have the decency to advertise their intentions. They don’t like us and they don’t care if we know it. Heck, they want us to know it. But Weyoun? Oh, he’s all smiles, always playing nice, operating under that whole ‘let’s-all-be-friends’ pretense. Truth is he cares about us even less than the Cardassians do. As long as we’re useful to him he’ll keep us around, but if blowing up the station with all of us inside would help him win the war for the Dominion, he’d do it.”

You frown.

“Not the answer you were hoping for?” prompts Quark at your disappointed silence.

“Not really,” you admit, “but I guess I’m not surprised. He is with the Dominion, after all. They aren’t exactly benevolent masters.”

Quark studies you for a long moment.

“You should talk to him,” he finally says. “Let him know you’re interested. Conversation like that’ll  _ definitely  _ show you what kind of person he is.”

You just about knock over your drink. 

_ “Interested _ – what – I don’t –”

“Of course you don’t,” he agrees instantly, dismissing the matter with a wave of his hand. “Forget I said anything at all.”

But you see the distinct hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he turns to walk away.

* * *

Quark’s insinuation stays with you long after you’ve left the bar. You weren’t  _ romantically _ interested in Weyoun, of course – it was just a passing curiosity – you’re offended by the very  _ notion!  _ There is, you reason, a certain draw to men in positions of power...especially ones who boast eloquence and intelligence to boot. But that’s only natural, right? You don’t really  _ want  _ to be with the diplomatic representative of a galactic empire hell-bent on total, genocidal domination. It’s just an intriguing thought, is all.

You tell yourself these things as you patrol the Promenade. Not much happens here anymore, really; the Jem’Hadar keep to themselves and the Cardassians seem to respect law and order, for the most part (a reality that surprises you). The civilians are mostly too timid to test the consequences of breaking the law, and this early in the day there are usually no drunks or loiterers to shoo away. 

It is for this reason you find yourself standing at the perfect vantage point, at oh-seven-thirty exactly, to catch sight of the daily procession of the Vorta and his guards en route to the wardroom: the only interesting thing to happen during these early-morning shifts. Grateful for the momentary break in monotony, you’ve woven this small sightseeing ritual into your daily routine.

It’s an uneventful enough occurrence. Occasionally Weyoun will be accosted by a civilian wanting a quick word with the station commander who can’t fit in a meeting for every little thing the way Sisko did. The Jem’Hadars’ panicked overreactions to such intrusions are always amusing. But the Vorta, for his part, contains them with a single hand gesture and does his best to hear the civilian out, offering smiles and platitudes as he goes – and always ending the encounter with a friendly clap on the shoulders or a light touch of the arm. Even to those simply walking by, few and far between as they are at this hour, he always offers a smile and a quick “hello.”

The morning next, you find yourself patrolling the lower deck for once. No reason in particular, you think. Just a change of scenery.

And when Weyoun comes strolling down the Promenade, guards in tow, you just happen to be walking towards him.

So really, you’re quite unprepared when, as he passes you, the Vorta makes a point to meet your eyes, smile, and offer a heartfelt, “Good morning.”

You can only nod and continue on, and the interaction is over in an instant. But it takes some time for your pulse to return to normal.

You think you’ll start patrolling the lower deck more often.

* * *

After a week, the process is becoming routine. You receive a burst of warmth and starlight in that beaming smile and you nod stiffly back, probably blushing up a storm. But today, wired on raktajino, you’re restless for more. You stand at post and wait for the procession, and as usual, it arrives right on schedule. Weyoun looks your way with a smile.

“Good morning.”

“Morning,” you reply back this time, quiet but audible, and you think you notice a hint of surprise –  _ pleasant _ surprise – in the Vorta’s eyes as he holds your gaze for  _ just _ a split second longer before continuing on.

You realize you have a problem.

* * *

“I need a favor,” you whisper, “but you can’t tell anyone.”

“My lips are sealed. Now what is it I can do for you, Lieutenant?”

You fidget. Admitting to Quark that he was right is a frustrating thought – but you don’t see you have a choice anymore.

“I need to commission a – a holosuite program.”

He slams his hand onto the bar. “I knew it!”

“Quark!” you hiss, glancing around. But it’s early afternoon, past time for lunch break, and as usual when you come here after your shift, there’s a lull. The few scattered patrons present are uninterested in your conversation and too far away to hear it, anyway.

“I can make it happen,” he assures, recapturing your attention, “but it’ll cost ya.”

“I know, I know. How much?”

“Depends on how detailed you want this program of yours to be.”

You frown, contemplating the question.

“I’d like it to be...at least  _ somewhat _ realistic. With some alterations, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I heard you once did this sort of thing with Major Kira – made a hologram version of her based on her records. There has to be some sort of personnel file of Weyoun on record, right? And I bet you know how to access it.”

“I would  _ never _ –”

You cut him off before he can feign innocence. “Yes, you would, and we both know it. Now, can you do it or not?”

He fixes you with the self-satisfied look of a Ferengi who knows he has something someone wants very, very badly.

“Just give me the specifications and I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

Perhaps it’s just your imagination, but over the course of the next two weeks, your daily interactions with Weyoun seem to shift a bit in tone. They become...warmer. More familiar. Maybe it’s because, to your knowledge, you’re the only one who returns his greeting; most people have the decency to regard their oppressor with cold indifference. Not you, of course.

You’re certain it’s all in your head, but Weyoun almost seems to  _ look forward _ to your greetings. “Ah,” he sighs now, as if relieved to see you, “good morning.” Sometimes, even, a fond, “Good morning, lieutenant.”

The morning before your holosuite reservation, you somehow can’t bear to meet his gaze. From your perch on the upper deck you notice the Vorta looking for you at your usual spot – and when you aren’t there, his eyes search the Promenade briefly. To your horror they find you, leaning on the railing of the upper level; the smile that spreads across his face is relieved, but questioning. He nods to you. You return the gesture.

You  _ have  _ to get this out of your system or it’s going to kill you.

* * *

It isn’t unusual for customers to arrive to their holosuite reservations dressed up. You’ve seen patrons stroll in with everything from elegant formalwear to medieval battle armor to spandex workout attire. But the thought of showing up to Quark’s in a lacy little thing, all dolled up, is mortifying to say the least – so, you don your uniform.

No one pays you the slightest attention as you make your way up to the holosuites, and yet you can’t shake the feeling all eyes are on you. Is it guilt? Shame? For feeling so drawn – so helplessly attracted – to a war criminal that you paid real latinum for the chance to fuck a hologram of him?

You plug the rod containing your program into the slot, take a steadying breath, and head inside.

You step into a re-creation of the wardroom; the doors slide shut behind you. Standing at the head of the table, his hands clasped behind his back, is Weyoun. He’s focused quite intently on something on the display screen.

“Ah, Y/N,” he says without turning, and color rises to your cheeks at hearing your first name uttered in that smooth, sultry voice. “Thank you for joining me on such short notice.”

“It’s no problem,” you murmur, quite unprepared for this to be affecting you so much. Your breath hitches in your throat as Weyoun turns to face you, as those violet eyes of his lock onto yours. He gestures with a smile to one of the seats at the table.

“Please, sit.”

You do so, and he slides into the chair beside yours. You face one another – you, stiff on the edge of your seat, him, leaning comfortably back – and a long moment of silence passes as the hologram regards you.

“I must admit,” he finally says, “I haven’t called you here on exactly...official business.”

“Oh?” you breathe, feigning surprise. Your hands ball into nervous fists on your thighs.

“It’s true.” Weyoun leans forward, his expression softening. Tentatively, testing the waters, he reaches out to brush the back of his hand against your cheek – and your eyelids flutter shut at the sensation. You lean practically your entire body into his touch, into the simple, soft caress you had so desperately longed for.

“I’m afraid I find myself rather troubled lately by...well, the thought of you, Y/N. I cannot seem to get you out of my mind…”

You open your eyes to see him studying you closely, his brow furrowed. You aren’t sure how to respond – if the program is going to want you to admit your own feelings in return – but to your relief, Weyoun seems to understand your shy smile as consent. With a glance down toward your lips, he begins to lean in, and you close your eyes, waiting for the kiss to land…

“Computer, freeze program,” rings out a clear voice from behind you.

A very familiar voice.

The Weyoun in front of you freezes. Your heart leaps up into your throat as you jerk away from his touch and scramble to your feet; in your panic you knock your chair to the floor. As you whip around you see, standing at the entrance with hands clasped and lips twisted into a very amused smile, another Weyoun. Very much unfrozen.

You have never felt such true, deep, abject horror in your life.

Half-choked fragments of excuses bubble up from your throat before you can stop them: “I – this isn’t – it’s not – I can…”

But your panicked stammering trails off as Weyoun raises a hand in the air to silence you. Grasping onto the tabletop behind you, you watch, paralyzed, as the authentic Weyoun saunters casually over to inspect his doppelganger, still frozen mid-kiss with eyes half-lidded, one hand cupping where your face used to be.

“It’s a faithful enough reproduction,” he decides, with almost an air of approval. “But, like all holograms,“ and he turns on his heel to face you, arms wide, smile growing, “second-best when compared to the real thing.”

Words fail you. You can feel your face glowing red hot, no doubt a brilliant shade of crimson by now, and your heart is racing painfully in your chest. Your grip on the table is the only thing keeping you upright.

At your lack of response, Weyoun frowns and tilts his head inquisitively.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, as though he doesn’t know. Playing at ignorance delights him – you can tell by the spark of glee in his eyes. You almost begin to formulate an answer, but it dies in your throat as he takes a threatening step towards you.

“You’re speechless,” he observes with disappointment, and another step takes him  _ uncomfortably _ close. His hands come to rest on the tabletop beside yours and he bears down intensely on you; you shrink back as much as you can but the table traps you right where you are.

“And here I thought you’d be grateful for the…shall we say, upgrade.”

“I,” you manage in a sudden burst of conviction, and then falter, divert your eyes.

“You?” he encourages, rather gently in fact, and dips down to meet your gaze where it had settled on the pleated fabric of his shirt.

You take a steadying breath and try to salvage the situation.

“I never meant for… Rather, I never wanted to…to  _ disrespect _ you, or…”

Your mind swirls with thoughts of what consequences this man could enact on you because of your lasciviousness. He could have you thrown off the station, deported back to Bajor. He could have you killed.

You feel yourself starting to hyperventilate.

“Lieutenant,” comes Weyoun’s soft reply after a moment, and the world stops spinning quite so much when you re-focus on his eyes. Haltingly, they emit a genuine aura of concern. He waits a moment for your breathing to slow before continuing.

“I’ve known how you felt about me from the moment we first set eyes on one another.”

This alarms you. “You have–?”

“Oh, yes,” he assures, and clasping his hands behind his back, he steps away to pace the room in thought. You’re grateful for the breathing space.

“How fearful you were to draw my attention, and yet how eagerly you sought it. Your hesitance to meet my eyes. The reverent way you looked at me, and then the haste with which you looked away. Your stiff replies and your blushing and fidgeting.”

He turns to survey how uncomfortable he’s made you. You stare hard at the floor.

“So,” he presses on, approaching you again, “when I discovered my personnel files had been accessed and my holographic record downloaded, I had a sneaking suspicion it might have had something to do with you. And, lo and behold.”

He gestures to the room around you, his face twisting into a self-satisfied smirk.

Taking another step, Weyoun closes the short bit of distance still between you, and thoroughly flustered by his proximity you struggle to form a cohesive thought. You catch the scent of his breath – faintly sweet, like an otherworldly flower. You see his chest rising and falling beneath the textured fabric of his shirt. You feel his warmth.

The silence is lingering like a miasma in the air around you and you know he’s waiting for your reply. Still uncertain where exactly this is headed – to hell in a handbasket, most likely – you swallow, collect your thoughts, and make an effort to defend yourself in this highly indefensible position: “It was – it was never very serious, mister Ambassador, sir, I – I only wanted to...indulge in a passing fantasy–”

“Oh, come now, Y/N.”

He used your first name. It sounds  _ very _ different coming from this Weyoun than it did from the holographic one. You look up with eyes wide; he smiles back down to you.

“You can lie to yourself, but not to me.”

He reaches up to brush a strand of hair out of your eyes. He tucks it behind your ear, and his fingertips trace the arc down to your jawline. You realize, with sudden, electrifying fear, exactly where this is headed.

When writing the specifications for your program, you’d requested the holographic Weyoun’s attitude be adjusted to compensate for his...aggressiveness. You wanted, you wrote, to be treated with kindness. To be handled gently. But as the real Weyoun leans in, his hand lingering at your jaw, his lips pausing just  _ centimeters  _ above yours, waiting for your consent...you feel as though the precautions might have been a touch unnecessary.

Hardly believing the position you’re in, you tighten your grip just ever so slightly on the tabletop – just to make sure you’re still here, not dreaming, not dead – and then, breathless, you press your lips up into Weyoun’s.

Weyoun returns the gesture with appreciation, and it’s everything you ever wanted and more. His lips are gentle as they move on yours, a slow, subdued waltz of a kiss. You can feel his breath warm against you; his slow, even breathing seems to calm yours somewhat, and after a while you begin to relax into the kiss. His hand brushes against your jaw, slides up to cup your cheek (which he strokes for a few moments with his thumb), and slips back into your hair. Time feels as though it’s stretching into eternity. 

As you begin to give him your own small signs of encouragement – your hands tentatively reaching up for a place to sit on his shoulders, your body leaning forward into his – Weyoun gladly deepens the kiss. His lips press harder onto yours, pry them apart; you feel heat returning to your face and your breath growing shallow as this hotter, wetter, open-mouthed kiss grows in passion, until eventually a tongue laps at your lips, looking for purchase – you grant it, allow it to slip inside – your tongues tangle, swirl, dance together. Weyoun grabs and lifts you into a sitting position on the table and he settles between your parted legs, presses urgently into you; his arm snakes around your waist, his hand tightens in your hair; you gasp for air, you moan against him –

And then you’re free, panting and squirming against the uncomfortable warmth of the room, and the lips that abandoned yours migrate to your neck instead, where they trail long, moist kisses and latch onto your sensitive skin to suck and nibble, and you spare a split second’s thought in regards to the hickies he’s no doubt leaving but before your protest can form it’s silenced by your involuntary gasp: “Weyoun–!”

“Y/N,” he breathes back into your ear in reply, and the wantonness of it, the  _ lasciviousness  _ shakes you to your very core. You shudder. There’s a growing hunger within you, a gnawing, a desperate need for more – and helpless under his ministrations, all you can do is slide your hands over his chest, around his shoulders, down his back. As he switches sides to continue his attack on your neck, you venture further, curious, cautious – wondering how compatible Vorta anatomy is going to be with your own – and are rewarded with the familiar feeling of a hardness pressing against the front of his trousers. You hear his breath hitch as you squeeze it in your palm, tentative at first, and then hungrier, more confident; the attention on your neck ceases altogether as you rub and massage Weyoun’s cock with ever-growing intensity, eliciting the softest groans and quietest sighs against your aching neck, and he presses into you, rocking his hips in rhythm with your touch.

You’ve never felt so powerful in your life.

But Weyoun isn’t about to let you have all the fun. Gathering himself, he lifts his head to sigh his appreciation directly into your ear, to nip at your earlobe, to press kisses along your cheek and at the corner of your eye; his hand slips out of your hair and trails down your neck, your shoulder, your chest. You can’t help arching up into his touch as he cups one of your breasts, feeling it gently, getting acquainted...then massaging lightly, exploring...then squeezing, groping, devouring.

You both can only take so much of feeling one another up before something has to give – namely, the clothing separating you. Weyoun is the first to break away; wasting no time, he unclasps his overcoat and rips it off his shoulders, and you slide your hands appreciatively (and impatiently) up the exposed skin of his chest once he pulls his shirt off as well. The moment it’s gone he grabs at your zipper, yanking it down your chest, and before you can wriggle away to shrug your uniform off he deftly undoes the clasp at the front of your bra as well. The relief at shedding your stifling clothing almost trumps the feeling of exposure that overwhelms you as Weyoun helps you eagerly out of your tunic; he slides his hands beneath the bra as it falls away to feel the warm skin of your breasts, to stroke his thumbs over your nipples, and the low, gravelly hum of appreciation that issues from his throat convinces you that he’s enjoying the sensation even more than you are. You grasp onto his upper arms, sighing, whimpering, writhing under his eager touch, and  _ desperate  _ to have him focus his efforts southward, you manage a small plea: “Weyoun...”

He likes the sound of his name. Breaking away from his preoccupation with admiring the sight of your chest, the Vorta lifts his gaze to fix you with an expression you’d previously only imagined in your dreams: ardent, alight,  _ ravenous _ for more. You have only a moment to admire it before he guides you to lie back against the table and then yanks your hips toward him until your lower end is hanging off it; he presses himself into the space between your parted thighs and you are  _ uncomfortably  _ aware of the heat radiating from between your groins, now pressed against one another, intoxicatingly close but frustratingly still separated by several layers of fabric.

You lift yourself onto your elbows to get a better view. Weyoun, still holding you by the hips, heaves a slow, heavy sigh as he presses and grinds into you, and you bite your lip to choke back your moan, writhing wantonly back into him; he leans over you, hovers just above your lips, and you reach up to connect but he pulls back, smirking, teasing; you whine and reach to tangle your hand into his hair and force his head down and to your surprise he allows it, presses into the kiss, devours you hungrily as you rock together –

And, unable to wait a moment longer, the Vorta finally rips away from you to yank the rest of your clothing down off of your hips, leaving you completely exposed. He locks his fiery violet eyes on your expression as – breathless – you watch him unzip his own trousers and produce his swollen, aching cock.

You wonder for a brief moment if the holographic Weyoun would have been remotely accurate. Did anyone know what Vorta genitals looked like, before this moment? Would the programmer have imagined that curved taper from the thick base to the smooth, indented head? Would they have added the purple blush at the tip? Would they have hand-sculpted the ridges on either side?

Your fascination is usurped by desire as Weyoun presses his alien organ against you, rubbing the head against your slick folds. You twitch and curl your toes and grasp for purchase at the flat tabletop, desperate to be entered, to be  _ filled  _ – 

“Please,” you beg finally. “ _ Please,  _ Weyoun.”

Weyoun, pausing, considers your plea. You stare up at him with longing as he circles your entrance, slowly, tantalizingly; you wonder what kind of perverse pleasure he gets out of watching you struggle beneath him, mewling and moaning, dying a little more each passing moment. Finally he sighs, reaches a hand down to caress your face, and rewards you with a gentle smile.

“Alright,” he purrs, “but only because you asked nicely.”

He guides himself into position. Centimeter by centimeter, inch by inch, he fills you; you whine quietly to yourself as he stretches you open, gliding into your slick cavern with little resistance. The sensation pries your lips apart into a silent gape as you adjust, and above you Weyoun leans heavily on one hand flat on the table, his head bowed forward, his eyes slid shut.

Once snug inside you he pauses, gauging your reaction. You pant shallowly beneath him and wriggle your hips until you’re certain you can take his girth and then, nodding, you give him permission.

He pulls back and then thrusts swiftly into you; you yelp, moan, grasp at his forearms as he picks up a firm and brisk pace, and from the look in his eyes you know he’s holding himself back, he’s relishing being inside you but it’s not enough, he wants to slam into you, to fuck you until the table breaks but he doesn’t want to hurt you, doesn’t want to overwhelm you – 

You reach up and grab the Vorta by the shoulders. A hint of surprise passes over his features as you drag him down and smash your lips onto his, and he responds eagerly, picks up the pace as you both pant and moan muffled, desperate sounds into the violent kiss. From this angle, every thrust has him jutting up against your clit, and you rock back down urgently into him, white hot electricity sparking deep within your belly and lighting a fire through your veins.

You don’t want him to hold back anymore.

_ “W’yun,”  _ you manage against his lips, and breaking away, he lightens his rhythm to give you a moment to catch your breath. You gaze up at him with eyes half-lidded and feel him shudder at the sight of you – your bare chest heaving, your lips swollen and bruised, your hips grinding down into him.

You fix him with a look that, you hope, conveys the extent of your need, and though you mean them as a plea, the choked words that issue from your throat are far more of a demand:  _ “Fuck me.” _

_ “Gladly,”  _ he growls back down to you, and grasping at your thighs for leverage, the Vorta thrusts his cock  _ hard  _ into you. You feel him slam against your cervix and you jump at the sudden rush of pain, but with a slight adjustment of your hips he’s fucking wildly into you at the  _ perfect _ angle, the tip of his cock is dragging over your g-spot with every thrust and it’s wonderful, it’s  _ maddening,  _ your eyes roll back and Weyoun’s glaze over as he fills you over and over; he pulls you back into him to meet every thrust and the waves of pleasure are rippling throughout your body, you reach down to stroke yourself but Weyoun replaces your hand with his own and rubs your swollen clit with ardent fervor, and you buck and arch into him and you cry out in pleasure and your muscles clench around him –

And as you spill over your edge, ecstasy blinding you, euphoria wracking your body, Weyoun does as well; you feel hot jets of liquid shooting into you with every jerk of his hips and his head rolls back, choked grunts of pleasure erupting from deep within his throat, nails digging painfully into your thighs.

And just like that, it’s over. As the white fades out from the edges of your vision and the fuzziness of your thoughts starts to dissipate, you find yourself suddenly aware of how hard and cold the tabletop is under your back; the warm feeling of bliss between your legs begins to give way to a dull ache. You open your eyes to see Weyoun watching you, still recovering as well, though his breathing has returned to normal far faster than yours. You share a look just before he pulls out of you (eliciting a small gasp), and though you recognize distinct notes of satisfaction and a certain pleased look in his expression, you can’t help feeling as though there’s something else there as well, something sharper, lurking just below the surface.

The reality of the situation comes begrudgingly back into focus. You regard Weyoun with caution as he offers a gentlemanly hand to help you back to your feet. He returns your distrust with only a warm smile.

“You know, my dear,” he says, breaking the silence as you both collect your clothing, “I don’t think you’ll be getting much use out of this program, after all.”

You’re disappointed, but not surprised. “I figured you would be confiscating it.”

“I intend to do no such thing. I simply meant you will have little need of it.”

You freeze mid-clasping your bra. The cogs turn slowly in your head: “...Are you, uh. Are you saying this is going to...be a regular thing?”

“If you’d like it to be,” he hums.

You find your hands have started shaking. You fumble with your bra.

Weyoun, already fully dressed, appears before you. “Here,” he says, in that low, infuriatingly suave voice of his, “allow me.” And his fingers brush against the dip between your breasts as he clasps your bra for you, and you feel yourself blushing again, and you look up to those lavender eyes so close to yours with something akin to awe.

He smiles down to you, and after lingering just a moment at your chest, one of his hands lifts to brush just  _ ever  _ so gently against your cheek. Your eyelids flutter shut involuntarily, and your lips part, expecting a kiss…

But after a terse moment, you open your eyes to find Weyoun has pulled inexplicably away. Gathering yourself, you hurry to don the rest of your clothing as the Vorta meanders over to his holographic facsimile, who has been sitting at the table frozen the entire time.

“Guess I wasted my latinum,” you mutter to break the silence, still a little numb. But Weyoun smiles, shakes his head, beams back at you.

“But you haven’t. In fact, you’ve purchased something  _ much _ more valuable than a hologram with that latinum, Y/N.” And at your quizzical look: “My attention.”

You consider the ramifications of that statement. But before you can launch into any actual discussion about what this is going to mean for you, what kind of a relationship he has in mind, Weyoun approaches you again – wielding that deadly smile. He offers you an arm.

“Shall we?”

And, reeling still, you take it.

“Computer,” he says, “end program.”

The two of you walk arm-in-arm out of the holosuite and into a bright – but uncertain – future.


End file.
